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That Men's Health Profile of Brady is Pure Patriots Porn

Gay Pat was of course right this morning when he said if the Tom Brady photo doesn’t give you the gay, then you can’t call yourself a real man. And I say that as a long time, out and proud Bradysexual.

But even if you’re not secure enough in your masculinity to be won over by that Men’s Health cover, you’ll have to be swayed by the rest of the photo gallery and the accompanying profile. I mean, holy moly. Resistance is futile:

It’s 8:35 on an impossibly clear and bright morning at a private resort in the Bahamas. A whisper of wind rustles the palm trees, and tucked down a golf-cart path, shielded by flowering bushes, there’s a freshly marked-out football field with two yellow uprights on either end. Apart from a gallery of seagulls, there’s no one around except Tom Brady; his trainer, best friend, and cofounder of TB12, Alex Guerrero; and Brady’s manager, Kevin Bonner. In person, the 42-year-old Brady looks about 30, and he is not the kind of celebrity who seems less handsome or more normal in real life. He’s bigger and taller than you might expect, with huge hands and thick limbs, and he radiates confidence with his icy blue hawkish eyes and disarming smile. “We need you to catch some balls today,” he says, grinning my way. “You ready?”

Every summer for the past seven years, the quarterback of the New England Patriots has come to this remote island for a beach boot camp. It’s an intense part of his regimen, which has him training two to three hours daily to strengthen his arm, pack on more upper-body muscle to absorb hits, and sharpen his footwork and acceleration so that he can elude pass rushers. … He unfurls that smooth throwing motion that has tortured opposition players and thrilled New England fans for 19 years, culminating with a flick of the wrist that snaps the towel. …

This is a maximum-effort drill for distance. Brady is throwing down the sideline, launching six passes as far and as straight as possible. Our job is to catch the balls and put them down right where they would land. Guerrero and Brady tinker with his drop, bounce, step, torque, and release. When a pass wobbles off course, Brady shouts to the palm trees, “That’s an interception.” When I drop a perfect spiral, he screams at me, “That’s the game winner!” …

Most of the balls are within five or ten yards of one another around the 60-yard cone. He tells me his arm is as strong as it was when he entered the league, and I believe him. Catching these bombs is chewing up my forearms; they’re etched with lace marks and will end up being bruised for days. Later, Brady tells me that during games, only about 10 percent of his passes do what he wants them to do. “There are times when I release the ball and I know it’s perfect. I throw it with the exact pace and arc that I wanted, and to the exact location,” he says. “But when I throw it and it doesn’t do that, in my mind [I’m thinking,] I’m fucking shit—what did I do wrong? I fucking overstrode. Too little torque.

Guerrero notes that Brady will rarely throw 60-yard passes in a game. Last season, his longest pass was 49.9 yards—by comparison, 23-year-old Bills QB Josh Allen completed the league’s longest in 2018, at 63.9 yards—yet the point of today’s drill isn’t to lengthen Brady’s throwing range but to improve his accuracy and velocity for shorter throws. He closes out the session zipping 30-yard passes to different corners of the end zone. His arm is looser now, the balls flying out faster. Brady notes the flawless passes with a “There it is.” He has thrown close to 80 balls this morning, and he doesn’t want to stop. “I’m a little tortured,” he says. “At football, I want it to be so right.”

Annnd … I’m spent. Forgive me, but I’m going to need a minute to compose myself. To go rehydrate and get through the refractory period so I can read it again. This doesn’t read like Men’s Health. Some profile of a hunky beefcake celebrity like Adam Levine or Chris Hemsworth. This is pure erotica.

The heroic protagonist. Handsome. With a youthful vigor. Set in an exotic location. On an adventure. And doing what gets the reader aroused more than anything: Perfecting his craft and being better than everyone else. Even men half his age. Striving to be ever more heroic in the days and years to come, like a great swordsman working on his fighting skills to save the day once again.

This could’ve come straight from one of those paperbacks they sell at Target with a painting of Fabio on the cover in period costume, tearing the bodice off some wench. This could’ve been written by E.L. James. “50 Shades of GOAT.”

So while the sports media world is still trying to whip the public into a panic by claiming that his contract extension actually means this could be his last year, the rest of us sane people can read this and appreciate the pure, sensuous, steamy, titillating sexiness of his annual Bahamas beach workout and be grateful this man belongs to us. Now I’ll you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room for the rest of the afternoon. Please knock before you come in.